Sherlock's Dilemma
by leesungyeol
Summary: John's been captured by Moriarty. Again. But Sherlock's realised this is something far worse than the last time...
1. Hello, dear!

When Sherlock Holmes arrived back at 221B Baker Street, his companion wasn't there.

This surprised him, and when he asked Mrs Hudson if she had seen him, she replied with a quiet 'no'. Sherlock didn't question any longer, however, and assumed that he had gone to meet up with Sarah. He reckoned he should catch up with his novel, something he hadn't done in quite a while now, and did so.

Just as Sherlock turned to the last chapter, a phone rang. It definitely wasn't his phone, since the ringtone was different, but he recognised it. He sat up from the sofa, scanning the room, trying to find the source of the ringing until his eyes set on a rather familiar pink phone.

The pink phone from The Great Game.

Sherlock hadn't got rid of it, not yet, anyway. He certainly wasn't expecting another call, however, and there was only one person who knew the number. He stood up slowly, approaching it with caution and picking it up.

_Number blocked_.

He stared at it for a while as the ringing continued, before he slid the bar and answered it. Sherlock had barely uttered a 'hello' when a familiar voice in which he hadn't heard for quite a while now piped up.

"Hello, _dear_!" Jim Moriarty said rather sarcastically into Sherlock's ear. Sherlock couldn't help but scowl.

"What have you done now, Moriarty?" He snapped. If it was something to do with John, Sherlock swore to himself that he would _kill_ Moriarty.

Funnily enough, it didn't surprise him when Jim said, "Ohh, you know, this and that. _Maybe_ something to do with John."

"Where are you?" Sherlock demanded to know. Quite frankly, he didn't want the whole swimming pool situation – but Sherlock had the most stomach churning feeling that he had done something far worse than strap bombs to his chest like the last time.

"Catch me if you can!" Jim said before hanging up, leaving Sherlock with the phone against his ear and a _beep_ droning in his ears.

He put the pink phone in his pocket just in case Jim would call up to give him some sort of clue, picked up his own mobile and went through his contacts. When he reached Sarah, he pressed dial and waited for a response.

"Hello?" Sarah's voice didn't sound normal – she sounded worried, nervous. Sherlock didn't bother with the greetings – he never did.

"Did John visit you today?" He asked.

There was a moment's pause, and Sherlock was already starting to get impatient. She sniffed, before responding, "Yes, he did. He came over for lunch, and once we had finished he had a c-call, and suddenly he told me he had to go in such a solemn voice it scared me. Do you know where he is, Sherlock?"  
"Well, obviously not, that's why I'm calling you. Did you hear any of the conversation?"

"What? Umm, I heard a few no's, a yes, and an okay. He didn't say much."

Hmm. "Was he in any sort of a bad mood before the phone call?"

"No. He was really quite happy, actually."  
"Hmm, okay. Thank you Sarah." He hung up, grabbing his coat and scarf and, throwing them on, told Mrs Hudson he might be a while.

"Make us a nice meal for if we come back!" Sherlock called.

He heard Mrs Hudson sigh, and he chuckled. "I'm your landlady dear, not your housekeeper!"

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DERP. First Sherlock fanfiction I've posted up here. I need reviews because I love reviews and they let me know somebody's reading my work dammit D SO YEP ENJOY


	2. Clever, clever John

Sherlock spotted a cab just as he left 221B, and called for it. It was around one in the afternoon and the atmosphere was quiet, misty, cold. As if something wasn't quite right. In Sherlock's word, everything _wa__s_ wrong, and he had the horrible feeling things were only going to get worse.

Things always got worse with Jim Moriarty.

When he arrived Sarah's house, it was only typical that Sarah looked worried. She almost hugged Sherlock when she opened the door to him, but instead didn't say a word and let him in. Sherlock asked as soon as he stepped in what room John had occupied himself in in his telephone conversation.

"The living room," she told him.

He didn't say another word and made himself to the front room, examining it with the naked eye. The first thing he spotted was John's coat lying sprawled on the leather sofa, and he frowned.

"Obviously in a hurry, seeing as he left his coat behind," Sherlock said to himself. "Nobody would do that on an afternoon this cold."

Sarah was standing in the doorway. "I dunno, I tried to tell him he left his coat but he wouldn't listen, just kept on saying he had to go. I've tried calling him too-"

"Tried that already, doesn't answer, straight to voicemail," Sherlock muttered. "Obviously implies that he either turned off his phone or there's low signal. No signal would be the more appropriate option, considering that he never turn's off his phone." He looked around the room a bit more and set his eyes on Sarah's cabinet, and walked to it. "Two handprints. Did you touch this, Sarah?"

"No."  
"Hmm. John lent against this because he was worried, maybe? Ooh, but what's this…" there was a little piece of paper caught in one of the drawers, and Sherlock pulled it out. He opened it up, and a small smile spread across his rather melancholy expression.

On the paper were the words _where people scream, not in pain, but for their love and passion._

"What's that?" Sarah asked, feeling a bit stupid for not having seen the paper.

"John is clever. He wouldn't have written the exact place because that might've put him in more danger, but he knew I was going to come straight here and find this, clever clever John…"

"Um… yeah… what does it mean though?"

His face fell. "No idea. I'm guessing Jim went somewhere I would never associate with, only to make matters harder for me, think think think…"  
Sarah sighed, taking John's jacket off the sofa and sitting down, holding it to her chest. She took the remote, switching on the TV, thinking maybe anything could help.

She was right.

"Over to our main story for this afternoon… all routes passing Oval on the underground have been terminated due to the bomb that set off earlier this morning, killing almost seventy people and injuring one hundred. Paul's over at the crime scene…"

Sherlock's face lightened up as he heard the news report on the bomb._ Jim, no doubt. A clue, perhaps?_

"…there were no suspicious sightings before the bombing, however few people claimed to see some sort of a man in a suit and another man in a jumper looking rather odd looking just before the explosion at the station… if you have any reports, please put them forward…"

Sherlock was confident know. He had an idea of what John's note meant, and hoped it was correct. He turned to Sarah, nodded once to show that she had been of great use and then walked out of the living room.

"Wait!" Sarah called.

Sherlock spun around, narrowing his eyes to show that he was already impatient to find John and return him to safety.

"Give his jacket back to him," she said, holding it out. "At least he won't be cold."

* * *

woohooo chapter two. I got a bit lazy so sorry if the writing's a bit bad. D: also I spent a lot of time thinking about where they were and what his note was, and I'm still not sure of my outcome so sorry D:


	3. What if he doesn't live?

Sherlock kept John's jacket close to his chest as the cab took him to the crime scene. It was a reminder for him that everything _would_ be fine in the end and Jim wasn't going to win, just like the last time. It would be all right in the end.

As he paid the taxi driver and got out with John's jacket in his hand, one of the first people he spotted was Lestrade talking to Sally. He swiftly approached them, and Sally was the first one to spot him. She simply raised her eyebrow and greeted him in the same way she always did – "Hello, freak."  
"Ah, Sherlock," Lestrade turned his attention from Sally to Sherlock, and expected John to appear by his side. When he didn't, this surprised him. "Where's your boyfriend?"

Sherlock didn't say anything, but instead scowled and held up John's jacket to show that he was missing. He thought of mentioning Moriarty, but he wasn't that stupid.

"Anything of interest?" Sherlock asked.

"Not really," Sally replied. "I don't use the science of deduction as you happen to."

Sherlock couldn't help smile at Sally's comment. As he listened to their drabbles he pickpocketed Lestrade as he usually did and wandered off into the core of it all. As he ducked underneath the barriers, he bumped straight into Anderson, who didn't look too pleased by his presence.

"Oh, shut up Anderson," Sherlock said before Anderson could even utter a word, and dodged past him and into the remaining's of the underground station. He passed a lot of dead and injured people, which didn't bother him too much, considering he had seen a lot of death's during the time of his consulting detective employment. He asked an officer where exactly the bomb had set off, and when he was told he bent down and examined the spot with his magnifying glass.

"Definitely Jim," he murmured. "Anything to do with bombs is usually a guarantee to Jim. Hmm. The bomb blew up at a slightly odd angle, possible implying that Jim planted it in a hurry. Oh… but what's this?"

It was another piece of paper that hadn't been destroyed in the explosion. Sherlock grinned, grabbing it and opening it up.

_You're pretty close, aren't you?_

As he read it, Sherlock frowned. John didn't write this. It wasn't the sort of tone he would use, and plus it wasn't the same handwriting – it was messier. John's was more sophisticated. Sherlock tucked the note in his pocket, confused, and walked out of the crime scene, snapping at Anderson to shut up again just as he was about to open his mouth to claim something stupid.

Sherlock thrust his hands into his jacket pocket, walking off in a different direction. His walk was quite a long one until he reached his destination, and while he was strolling he realised he still had John's jacket. Thinking of John upset him. He was his only friend and person who he could _fully_ trust, and he didn't want to lose somebody like that – Sherlock realised John meant a lot to him and he was really dreading the feeling he was going to get again, facing Moriarty – that horrible feeling, _what if he doesn't live_?

_Oh, shut up, Sherlock_, he thought. _He always lives in the end. Good always beats bad._

About ten minutes later he had arrived at the Oval cricket ground, which was unoccupied. As to be expected. Sherlock slipped in, still feeling a bit empty, and looked around, studying the cricket ground for any sign of life. It was as silent, apart from the occasional blows of wind, and the green started to hurt his eyes.

"John?" He called, and his voice echoed. _John, John, John, John…_

He waited for a couple of minutes before he called, "Moriarty?"

Two hands clasped on Sherlock's shoulders and he jumped, but he wasn't hurt. "Peek-a-boo!" Jim said in his ear. "Lovely place, isn't it?"

Sherlock spun around, revealing a gun from his pocket and pointing it straight at Jim. Jim only laughed.

"Seriously?" He asked. "Is that all you can think of? A gun? Come on, have some creativity. The great Sherlock Holmes, there must be some of it in you!"

"What have you done with John?" Sherlock demanded to know, wrapping his finger around the trigger threateningly. Jim rolled his eyes, not impressed by his performance.

"You're _boring_," he complained like a small child, extending the word boring. "I thought you were smarter than this."

Sherlock was getting seriously impatient now, and a portion of his brain was yelling at him to pull that trigger. He wasn't that ignorant, however, and knew Jim would probably blow him up if he got shot. And he certainly didn't want to be blown up my Jim without placing John into safety. "Tell me now."

"Pfffft," Jim said, "no chance. I'm surprised you haven't asked why I've chosen a meeting place so close to a police investigation, however."  
Now that Jim had mentioned it, it did confuse Sherlock. Why _did_ he choose a place so close to the police, where they could easily find Jim and arrest him? Sherlock was almost disappointed in himself for not being smarter – where had his brain gone today? Was it just the idea that John was in danger that made him completely oblivious to all the obvious things? Or _what_?

"You see," Jim said, a smile plastered across his face, "I want them all to see the great Sherlock Holmes die."

* * *

okay I finally have an idea that I'm satisfied with. :D I'm not too sure about the writing style in this chapter, however, but yeah. Thanks to all my reviews, by the way. I really appreciate them. If you have any critique, please step up, I love that stuff as much as I love praise :3


	4. Mr Moriarty's little game

Wow, I'm on fire today. xD Short chapter for now, John's point of view. Poor guy. D': Also, thank you so much to the reviews and my fans! I don't reply, but you're really giving me the confidence to carry on and just letting you know how much I love you allllllll 3

ahem yeah anyway ENJOY~

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_Bloody Jim Moriarty._

_I'm a weak, feeble person who can't help himself. I'm nothing, really. I'm Mr. Moriarty's little game. He makes me do things, I obey, and I have to wait for Sherlock's great appearance, as if he's Superman. Me, the typical damsel-in-distress._

_I hate this._

_Sometimes I regret ever meeting Sherlock Holmes and agreeing to live with him in his little flat at 221B Baker Street. What am I but a little sheep, however? I'm nothing really important, just Doctor Watson, the guy who helps solve crimes with Sherlock Holmes. That's what everybody thinks of me. Why can't I be a person, a _real_ person? _

_I watch Sherlock's every move, my heart boiling up with hatred. Anybody was better than him right now. I knew what he's going to choose, and so does Jim Moriarty. He's cleverer than I thought, and now I can only think that Sherlock's stupider than I thought._

_Any moron knows the Earth revolves around the sun, apart from him._

_He lacks basic knowledge. Sure, he can deduce things from looking at your shoes, but what the hell, he doesn't even know who the Prime Minister is. What kind of supergenius is he, if he doesn't know things like that? Quite frankly, his little speech he gave me about putting _important_ things in your mind is ridiculous. _

_I stare at his locks of black curls resting on his head, those grey, piercing eyes and were staring right at Moriarty's grin. I scowl as I study every part of his body that's in view, thinking about the decision he was going to make and what was going to happen to me._

_I'm a helpless, fragile man who's going to be killed so very soon. _

_I suppose I can't centre all the hatred on Sherlock, though. No, this is Moriarty as well. That psycho bastard. I can't believe he likes to do these things for fun. Strap bombs to people's chest. Pretend he's 'from IT' and really be a consulting criminal. Blow up houses for the hell of it. Make people suffer, like I am now._

_Sherlock Holmes' is going to kill me and I can do nothing to stop him._


	5. Him, or you?

quite short, can't think of anything at the moment. enjoy.

**edit:** also, I need your help: what do you think Sherlock would do? I have an idea what's going to happen at the end, but I need your input on what he chooses. :D

* * *

To Jim's surprise, Sherlock chuckled. It was typical for Sherlock to have received a comment like that – being the only consulting detective in the world, he was sure to have been told those sort of death threats before. Not to mention the pool, where Jim, after he had changed his mind, was pretty convinced he was going to kill both Sherlock and John – which obviously failed.

"I get that a lot," Sherlock explained. "Now tell me where John is."

It was Jim's turn to laugh now. _He's going to love this_, he thought. "I thought I'd leave a little challenge for you," he said. "You see, John's perfectly safe. Well, no, he's not, because I'm not _that_ nice." He grinned. "He is, for now, however. He won't be when you make your decision. I'm giving you a choice, Sherlock," his face turned serious again, "a choice between life and death. You surrender, John lives. You don't surrender, you live, John dies." Jim paused, as if thinking of what he was going to say next. "If you kill me, you'll still die. So you're going to have to choose, aren't you? Who's more important – him, or _you_?"

_Sick… psychotic… _bastard_…_

John didn't write the note himself. He wrote it under the force of Jim, and did what Jim told him to, so that it was guaranteed Sherlock came. It was a trick; all of it was a trap, set up to put him in this dilemma…

"I know you have a heart, Sherlock," Jim murmured. "Prove it."

_I can't die_, Sherlock thought. _The whole world would collapse. I'm the reason for_ _the criminals in prison, I'm the reason Scotland Yard have solved all their cases, I'm the reason for London not being the holiday destination for murderers and robbers. Why should I die? What has John ever done but be my companion? I didn't need his help before he came strutting along, I did everything fine by myself. What great loss would it be if John died?_

Sherlock looked down at the jacket that was resting on his arm, and he blinked. _That was selfish. Really, very selfish. John's a human being, and even if he's not the world's only consulting detective or something absurdly ridiculous like that, I can't sacrifice him just because I think I'm more important. Moriarty's right. I do have a heart, and I can't kill somebody like John. He's my only friend, and I don't want to risk losing somebody like that, somebody so _important_ like him…_

_I hate you, Jim Moriarty. I can't even put into words how much I hate you._

Sherlock had no idea what to do. For once in his entire life, his head was in a whirl and he was almost certain there was no way to move forward. He had to pick one. Consulting detective or the doctor?

Who was more _important_?

Sherlock held his gun higher. "Tell me where John is, before I make my decision."  
"No chance," Jim replied. "I'm not that stupid, if you haven't taken that into account yet."

_Oh, I know that, Jim Moriarty. I really do know that._

"I'm not saying anything until you tell me where he is," Sherlock pressed, not giving up. This may have been the only escape out of this horror.

"Well that's just tough, isn't it!" Jim's voice raised into the usual high pitched childish tone he usually had when doing something like this.

_If I press further, he's going to kill me. Don't want that happening _just_ now._

_Maybe later._

He looked down at the gun he was holding, staring at it for a couple of minutes and thinking, _I should probably just surrender._


	6. Hopeless

Sorry for the delay for this chapter! I've been busy with homework and stuff, blegggghhhhh. I'm sorry it's short, too, I kind of rushed it since I have stuff to do today. Wow, I'm actually busy for the first time in my life. D; Anyway enjoy, reviews please! Reviews make me happyyyyy.

* * *

John Watson couldn't help but be surprised at Sherlock's response. His face was still calm and collected, but his eyes told a whole other story – fear and hatred were blazing inside of them. Moriarty's prediction surprised him, too – so he reckoned John wasn't going to die.

But Sherlock was.

Yes, John hated Sherlock at that precise moment, but he still couldn't help but feel guilt and pain for what was going to come. He didn't want him to die, not really. What would happen after that?

Boredom.

Hours upon hours of sitting on the sofa, flipping through the same TV shows and going through the same blog posts. No more murder mysteries and mind-boggling cases to solve. What were Scotland Yard going to do? They were pretty much hopeless without Sherlock Holmes and his great use of deduction.

John Watson thought he was going to be pretty hopeless without him too.

He was cold. Really cold. He realized he had forgotten his jacket at Sarah's and was regretting it – even the warmth of his jumper didn't help much. (AN: JOHN AND HIS JUMPERS GJDHGKJFDGHJKFDHGKJD 333 I'm sorry I had to include that somewhere.)

Jim Moriarty had a rather odd fetish for bombs.

He didn't know where they were, but they were in this room he was sitting in right now. At least they weren't strapped to his chest like the last time. That was horrible. But John new Jim had his finger on the trigger and it would blow anytime he wanted it to – under Sherlock's will.

John was angry again. He didn't want to die – _nobody_ wanted to – but it hurt even more than the last time he thought he was going to. Because he wasn't really needed. Life for Sherlock would just progress as usual without John._ I mean, he coped without me before I came along… so why can't he just continue?_

_Just pick yourself and get it over and done with, for God's sake._

What came next, however, astonished John so much he almost jumped up. Sherlock's hand was shaking as he bought the gun up to his head, staring straight at Jim with those cold, sacrificing eyes that could've killed John.

_I was wrong?_

Jim Moriarty grinned, making it obvious to the pair of them that he was enjoying this. "Good boy!" Jim exclaimed. "Just pull that trigger, Mr Sherlock Holmes, and it will all be over in a second!"

_Don't_, John thought suddenly. What were these changes of emotions? One moment he hated Sherlock, the next moment he almost wanted to die for him. His heart was pumping at full speed as he watched Sherlock's finger closely, as it wrapped around that trigger…


	7. Bang

I'm really sorry it's short guys! I actually didn't know what else to do. I PROMISE the next chapter will be longer. I'll try to update it next Sunday if I can, hopefully sooner. Yeah. Enjoy! Reviews! Please!

* * *

John didn't know what to do. His mind was in a mess and he _thought_ he was crying – ha ha. That had to be a joke. Crying. He chuckled to himself at the thought, but he couldn't deny the sudden blur in his eyes that was making his sight fuzzy.

"Stop, Moriarty!" John yelled. "I surrender, _okay_? I… bloody surrender!"

Everything stopped for a moment. Jim's smile faded for a second and when Sherlock saw his expression he frowned, dropping the gun from his head. It didn't take Jim to recompose himself, however, and the smile once more appeared on his face, bigger and bolder than ever.

"Oh, this is brilliant!" He cried, holding both his arms out to each side, emphasising his words. Sherlock still looked confused, but John was smiling now. _I knew it_, he thought. _I knew he could hear everything I was saying_. Living with Sherlock had brought him good – if he was still his normal self before moving into 221b Baker Street, he wouldn't have noticed the way Jim briskly ran a hand over his ear, almost unnoticeably, or the miniscule thing sitting in there.

"Kill me instead, Moriarty," John murmured.

Jim paused for a moment, thinking of what to do, before looking at Sherlock with his eyebrows raised. "Well," he said, "seems your boyfriend has surrendered for you!"

Sherlock dropped his gun when Jim had finished his sentence, kicking it with his foot so it slid across the grass. "He's not my boyfriend," he muttered, getting a bit frustrated.

Jim rolled his eyes. "Well, since you've shown no signs of wanting to help your bezzie, I must as well just kill him, okay dear?"

Sherlock didn't know what to do, and the first thing that came into his mind was to run up to Jim and hold him by the throat so he wouldn't do anything. As he did so, Jim chuckled. "Yeah, yeah, yeah, I get it. Threatening to kill me. Didn't really work the last time, did it Sherlock?"

There was a silence and John's heart was beating at full speed.

Sherlock Holmes didn't kill him.

He killed himself.

"Not gonna stop me, Sherlock Holmes!" He exclaimed, reaching for his pocket and inserting his hand in. _Three, two, one._

"Bang," Jim Moriarty whispered.


	8. A bit more time

I was desperate to write this, and I was pretty certain I wouldn't have got any sleep if I DIDN'T COMPLETE THE STORY DAMMIT

okay seriously i feel kind of proud of myself for finishing this, I never ever ever finish fanfictions

okay I'm finished now

okay I'm going to take a break now

okay I love you guys and thank you for liking my first ever story on this site, I feel so accomplished. :]

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_I feel odd. Really odd. I hear voices somewhere, but they're distant, muffled and inaudible. I think I hear Sherlock. I don't know. I don't know what I'm looking at either – it's like I'm in a swimming pool. I see a blue blur, and a little bob of blackness floating within it, which looks a lot like Sherlock's hair. I want to reach out and grab it but I can't move. I'm stiff. Nothing feels right. It's as if I've got anger, hate, lust, passion, envy, hurt, hope, happiness all packed into my mind, and I can't take it… it's too much for a dying man like me. Am I even dying? I don't know, again. I don't know anything. I feel so weak and stupid. The black figure has gone now, and all I can see is blue. So much blue it's starting to hurt my eyes. _

_Now… now I feel like I'm falling. Falling into nothing. Is that even possible? I'm sure it is. I've dreamt about it. Just those dreams where all of a sudden you're falling, and you wake up, panting for breath, expecting to have died, but you're perfectly fine. You're in the safety of your own home; nothing is happening to you, you're not dead. I'm not sure if I'm dreaming or not. It feels real, but at the same time it feels abnormal. I don't know how that makes sense, but it just does. It's just one of those things… those things you can't explain._

_I've had a lot of those 'things' during my time with Sherlock._

_Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock._

_I can't remember how I got here. I can't remember anything. All I can remember is Sherlock. And Moriarty. Yes, there was Moriarty. Bloody Jim Moriarty. I don't know what he's done to me now, but I hate him. Yes, I do._

_It's just me, a blue blur and the feeling of falling…_

_I'm tired. I want to sleep, just fall into endless unconsciousness and never wake up. Oh, that sound so good. I don't want to fall anymore. I want to stand still, I want to be where I was before, wherever that was, with Sherlock…_

_Sleep… _

_Sleep… _

_Sleep…_

* * *

"John."

"Mmmphrr."

"John."

"Give it a bit more time, dear," the nurse said to Sherlock, patting him on the back encouragingly. "He'll wake up soon."

Sherlock wasn't sure whether to believe that or not. He'd been visiting John for the past few weeks in hospital, and whenever he tried to wake him up the only response he got was a groan. He'd heard the same comment from the same nurse over and over again and he was starting to lose hope now.

John was lucky. Really lucky. The bomb at 98 Sandbourne Road should have killed him dead, but when he was found he was hanging on for dear life, severely injured and so close to death. Sherlock had never been so hurt in his life – Moriarty had managed to escape _yet again_, leaving Sherlock in the most flustered state. The bombing had been reported very quickly to the Metropolitan police, and when they had arrived to find John dying, Sherlock felt like he had had his heart ripped out of his chest.

Sighing, Sherlock stood up, just about to leave before he heard his name being whispered. He turned to look at John, who was actually opening his eyes for the first time in weeks. He sat down again, the hope rushing back into him again.

"John."

John smiled. "'urts," he murmered. "'urts a lot."

Sherlock frowned, not sure what to say. That he was happy? No, that would sound stupid and soppy. "You could have died," he settled with, still unsure of the words.

"Yeah, but I 'i'nt." John cracked a smile, and for Sherlock it was hard to resist the urge to smile back. He was right – it didn't. Four weeks later John Watson was awake in the hospital, having a conversation with his flatmate Sherlock Holmes. He should've been dead. It was a miracle he was still alive. He hadn't died!

_Yet._

Oh, shut up Sherlock.

There was still one thing stuck in his mind, however. He hadn't been able to get it out no matter how hard he tried, and he needed to ask before John fell back asleep again. Sherlock could tell he would, because his eyelids were started to flutter even though he was trying hard to keep them open.

"Why, though?" He asked. "Why did you do that?"

John's grin grew wider, even though it hurt. Everything hurt. "Because," he said, "I ain' impor'an'. You are."

There was a moment of silence between them and Sherlock had one of his very rare moments where he had no idea what to say in response. Not only had it flattered him – because it honestly, honestly had – but it had sort of made him… well, angry. Because John _was_ important. He was Sherlock's flatmate, accomplice, friend, _best_ friend even… Sherlock had no idea what he had done before John. He didn't even want to imagine it.

"Shut up, John," he said, interrupting the silence. "You are important." He looked away as he said it, feeling a little embarrassed.

Sherlock could hear John chuckling, and he shot him a sharp glance.

"No-one as impor'an' as Sherlock 'olmes."

Sherlock looked back to John, but he was already fast asleep.

* * *

_1 month later_

"Oh my God that man never listens," John murmured underneath his breath before exclaiming, "Shut _up_, Sherlock!"

It had been half an hour and Sherlock had been playing his violin non-stop, even after the constant "Okay, Sherlock, lovely performance, now can you stop!" exclamations from John.

As if he hadn't heard a word, he continued playing the same piece. John groaned, burying his head into his hands. It seemed like a miracle when Sherlock finally stopped.

"Thank goodness!" John exclaimed, and he heard the pitter patter of Sherlock's light feet approaching the sitting room.

"You know," Sherlock mused, putting his violin away, "just because you were blown up by Jim and magically managed to survive, I won't give up my violin for your head."

It was nice to know that things had pretty much turned back to normal after Jim Moriarty's reappearance. John still had to walk with a crutch just like the first time he met Sherlock, and his shoulder was as painful as ever, but other than that he had pretty much recovered in the hospital.

"Sometimes I wish I had never moved in with you," John commented, getting up.

"Milk," Sherlock said absentmindedly, browsing through his mobile.

"What?"

"Milk," he repeated. "We're out of milk."

_Oh, the good old days, alright_, John thought miserably as he sighed and made his way out of 221B Baker Street.


End file.
